


A Place To Call His Own

by kronette



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Will Graham, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26726329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: Will and Hannibal have been constantly on the move after they killed the Dragon. Will finally has had enough.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	A Place To Call His Own

Will’s voice was barely a whisper as he moved past Hannibal in the foyer. “This is the last house I move into.” 

Will continued up the stairs he saw to his right, then chose a bedroom at random to drop his bags. Any bed would do as long as it was comfortable. Feeling grimy after the long drive, he riffled through his bags to find a change of clothes and headed down the hallway to the bathroom. 

A modestly appointed shower, all Will cared about was the water pressure, groaning softly as hot water pounded his tight shoulders. He hadn’t thought to check for soap, so he settled for rinsing off the stench of stale sweat. 

He patted his hair dry and wrapped the towel around his waist, wiping his hand across the steamy mirror. His wan, tired expression stared back at him, as it had a dozen times before. 

He pulled his clothes on over his damp skin, emitting a cloud of steam as he opened the door to the hallway and nearly bumped into Hannibal. 

“Excuse me,” he mumbled, waiting for Hannibal to pass. He saw the tensing of muscle along the back of Hannibal’s hand where it clenched the suitcase handle. 

“I see you’ve settled in already,” Hannibal observed tightly, Will’s gaze darting to Hannibal’s before dropping away. 

“I’m going to explore downstairs and outside,” Will said as he stepped around Hannibal, the tense line of Hannibal’s shoulders a mirror of Will’s. 

The back yard was small but enclosed with a six foot privacy hedge. The patio furniture needed a good scrubbing, the stones beneath his feet, too. Will began making a mental shopping list: scrub brush, hose, bucket, cleaning solution. 

He trailed fingers down the rough wood and peeling paint of the posts holding up the short overhang: sander, pads, exterior paint to complement the brick. A ladder to check the gutters and roof. 

He tested the door handle on the way back inside, it was solid and latched firmly. He blinked in the darker interior, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He homed in on the fireplace, a gas unit that would provide ample heat when the weather turned cool. 

He circumvented the kitchen in favor of the dining room, then ended up back in the open area living space. The furniture was well cared for and suited his tastes. The décor suited his tastes. 

Will turned around slowly, taking in the whole rather than the parts, and saw himself reflected from every angle. The small pillows made of sturdy material, the simple furniture with clean lines, the area rug in muted greens and reds, the pictures of landscapes and seascapes. 

Rendered utterly speechless, it took Hannibal entering the room, freshly washed, for Will to find his tongue. “This isn’t your house,” he accused. 

“No,” Hannibal confirmed, crossing to the leather wingback chair and settling into it regally. 

Will was at a loss. This was the eleventh house he’d followed Hannibal into since their resurrection from the Atlantic. Each and every one had been foolishly lavish, extravagant and one hundred percent _Hannibal_. 

Will knew the FBI couldn’t have found all of Hannibal’s assets, but from his viewpoint, Hannibal had infinite resources and infinite properties scattered over the globe. If Hannibal had dragged him to Japan or Australia, he wouldn’t have batted an eye. But a cabin tucked at the edge of the woods on the Canadian-American border didn’t fit his profile of Hannibal at _all_.

“Who’s is it?” he asked, aware that he’d been silent a long time. He braced himself for another lyrical metaphor about the impermanence of ownership and how the previous dwellers hadn’t appreciated their surroundings, when Hannibal surprised him yet again. 

“I purchased it under an assumed name…Gary Watts.” 

A shiver chased its way down Will’s spine. Gary Watts was the alias Hannibal had provided for him: driver’s license, passport…everything he’d need to live and work. It was either the most coincidental coincidence in the entire world, or Hannibal had killed the previous owner and stolen his identity. Hannibal purchasing it _for_ him was dismissed before it was even a fully-formed thought. 

Nevertheless, Will found his voice softening as he explained, “It needs some work. I’m going into town tomorrow for supplies. Give me a list of anything you need before nine.” He waited for Hannibal’s nod of assent, then retreated to his room to unpack. 

~.~

Will lost himself in the mundane repair work, continually rubbing his fingertips over the wood to ensure it was smooth and splinter-free before painting it. Cleaning the wrought iron was less pleasant, but once the sun had dried the patio furniture, Will set it back in its place beneath the overhang in the shade and sat down, beer in hand. 

If he closed his eyes and tilted his head back, he could just hear the sounds of the city a few miles away. They weren’t as isolated as Will originally thought; a child’s laugh drifted on the wind, possibly from his left. He’d seen several gravel roads split off from the paved lane that led to the city. No doubt each one ended at a secluded cabin inhabited by unsuspecting potential meals. 

Dinner that evening consisted of the steaks Hannibal had purchased that morning, along with fresh local vegetables and sweet potatoes. It was just as delicious as all of Hannibal’s other meals and Will enjoyed it guilt-free. 

“Is the meat to your satisfaction?” Hannibal asked, even though Will had dragged the last bit of his potato through the remaining juice to savor it. 

He’d never been stingy with his praise of Hannibal’s cooking. “It’s perfect,” Will assured him with a small smile, sighing quietly as he set down his fork and knife. “This is perfect.” He met Hannibal’s gaze across the small table. “I won’t be leaving with you if something should happen,” he announced quietly, but firmly. “I like it here and I intend to stay.” 

It would have been less painful to slice Hannibal from head to toe and bleed him out, the assault on Will’s empathy almost too much. For Hannibal to be without him, after killing Dolarhyde together, surviving the ocean together, after traveling for years together, was unfathomable. Untenable. 

“You’ve been at my side for seven years,” Hannibal replied, just as quiet. “I chose this place specifically with you in mind. I chose the furniture and décor, all with you in mind. A place was made for you—for us, in this world.” 

“Then you should understand why I could never leave it,” Will replied softly. “You made it my home, Hannibal. Every other place we’ve been, has been _yours_. As beautiful and opulent as the surroundings were, to me they were cold and impersonal. You chose this for me and I’m moved far more than you could ever know.” 

He forced himself to look into Hannibal’s eyes, shining in the light that illuminated the table. “I may not have your empathy, Will, but I see you. I know you and I know your contentment won’t be sustainable if I were to leave.” 

“I survived without you once,” he rasped through a throat gone dry. “I can learn to survive again. You don’t seem to realize the extent of my restlessness, only your own. I started my life by moving from city to city, always the new kid. I don’t intend to spend the remainder of my years doing the same. Good evening, Hannibal.” Will placed his napkin on the table and stood on shaky legs, ignoring his fingers’ slight trembling as he made his way upstairs to his bedroom. 

~.~

A month and three days later, Will smelled blood. It was faint but that scent was ingrained in his psyche. He traced it to Hannibal at the butcher block, cleaning two kidneys. 

It was being stabbed in the cheek and gut and shoulder all over again. It was horror and disappointment and resignation. “Is this to be our final meal together?” he asked in a sotto voice. 

Hannibal didn’t stop in his preparations, didn’t look up from the meat, didn’t look at him. “That is up to you,” he replied, voice modulated so carefully that Will couldn’t read him. 

He waited through several breaths for Hannibal to say more, to plead for Will to join him, but Will was no longer the sole focus of Hannibal’s attentions. 

Not knowing what else to do, Will extended a peace offering. “I’ll set the table for us.” 

“Thank you, Will.” It was said with the same tone and inflection as every other time it had been directed at Will, but it rang with a hollow note. 

Unsure if it was his own emotions being projected onto Hannibal or Hannibal’s reflected back to him, Will moved on autopilot, retrieving the dishes and silverware. He set the table with precision, even going so far as to light several candles from the emergency kit to cast a warm glow. 

It didn’t help to thaw the ice that had settled on Will’s chest like a heavy blanket, making breathing difficult. 

It was too warm for a fire, but Will busied his hands by adjusting the gas on the fireplace until it was low and steady. Unwilling to face Hannibal, unable to make small talk and pretend that nothing had changed, Will sat in the leather wingback chair and plucked at a loose thread on his sweater. 

He picked at it until he could grasp the end and pull, unraveling the neatly looped threads. He watched row after row disappear from his arm, the pile of loose wool spreading outward from his feet like blood. 

He heard the clatter of dishes from the dining room; Hannibal didn’t make noise unless he wanted attention. Will was tired of indulging. 

When he didn’t magically appear at the table, Hannibal sought him out. “Will, dinner is ready.” 

No admonishment for the ruined sweater that had been a birthday present. No chastisement for destroying something that had been lovingly hand-crafted in Scotland. Anger flared and Will brought the thread to his mouth, twisting it around his fingers and biting until it snapped. He almost went to the table filled with ire and regret, but found he couldn’t move from the leather chair, imprinted with Hannibal’s light cologne. “I can’t,” he breathed. “I can’t have a final meal with you.” 

Hannibal’s disappointment faded as slowly as the setting sun. “He was a pickpocket, stealing from the tourists in the city,” Hannibal explained, holding out his hand, palm up. “The police had no leads pointing to him, just endless frustration at a common city ailment.” 

That smile, the one that started in the corners of Hannibal’s eyes and transformed his whole face, shone down on him. “Join me at the table, Will.” 

As he’d done when he thought he’d killed Abigail, as he’d done after they’d slain the Dragon, Will raised his hand and let Hannibal clasp it, drawing him to his feet. Will kept moving, stepping closer and tipping his chin up the barest bit to press a soft kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. 

For the first time in seven years, for the first time in his life, Will Graham was finally home.


End file.
